


Frodo Of The Nine Fingers

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Minas Tirith, Post-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:23:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having recovered from the physical hurts of the quest, Frodo still has some healing to do in Minas Tirith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, Baranduin. I don’t own any of the characters or main events of this tale. They belong to JRR Tolkien.

Merry frowned as Pippin tugged at his sleeve, almost spilling his cousin’s wine. Merry hissed a warning. The tablecloth was pristine and he was not about to be the first to sully it. He had done very well to get through the . . . what had that first course been called? Oh yes . . . melon. Then there had been that light and delicious vegetable soup . . . served iced. Merry turned to his younger cousin, who was tugging at his arm with growing urgency.

“And here was I thinking that you’d grown up a bit after all your adventures, Pip. It’s not very polite to haul about the dinner guests, especially when this particular dinner guest is enjoying a very good glass of wine.”

Pippin only rolled his eyes and grinned broadly. “Firstly . . . I am grown up . . . thanks to Treebeard. Secondly . . . you’re not my guest, you’re my cousin and cousins were made for hauling about. And thirdly . . . I had a good reason for “hauling”, as you put it.” 

Having made his long speech, Pippin seemed to forget what he had been so anxious to say and turned to watch the guest of honour, further along the table. The fish course was being served and Frodo was staring worriedly at his plate, hands held firmly in his lap. For its part . . . the fish stared back at him placidly from its pool of sauce.

Merry recovered his glass and took a sip, whilst at the same time trying to sit taller in his cushioned chair. He suspected that someone (and he had a pretty good idea who) had filched one or two of his cushions. He waited until his younger cousin had lifted his own glass and then tugged deliberately at the knight of Gondor’s velvet sleeve. Pippin managed to rescue his glass with a dexterity Merry had not considered possible. It became Pippin’s turn to frown.

Merry smiled sweetly. “I don’t suppose you’d like to share this “good reason”, would you, little cousin?” He leaned back to allow a page to set the fish course before him and his mouth watered at the delicious smell that wafted upwards.

“Frodo is doing it again.” Pippin nodded towards their older cousin as he allowed his own helping to be set down. Merry followed his gaze. He had paid little attention to the Ringbearer throughout the banquet so far but had noticed nothing untoward. In fact Frodo had been very quiet . . . almost withdrawn. 

The main guest of honour was sitting quietly. His right hand rested in his lap while the left picked at the cloudy-eyed aquatic on his plate, in a manner that suggested that he needed a fork with a much, much longer handle.

Merry stopped chewing his own mouthful of fish (suddenly having lost his own appetite) and turned to whisper to his younger cousin. “I don’t think Frodo cares much for fish at the moment, Pip.”

Pippin set down his fork, making no further move towards his own dish. “It’s not just the fish. He didn’t touch that melon thingy either. I have to say that while I liked the taste it wasn’t easy cutting it off the skin without getting it all over the table. So I wasn’t really surprised that he left it but he only had a couple of mouthfuls of the soup too.”

His comment was met with a weak smile. “Maybe it’s because he’s only using one hand. It can be difficult.”

“I expect it is.” Pippin’s tone implied that he thought there was more to it than clumsiness. “I’ve noticed that Frodo has his right hand in his pocket most of the time, nowadays. He seems embarrassed by it, somehow.”

Frodo glanced towards the pair, with a tight smile and Pippin grinned back, heart pausing as he considered whether Frodo’s hearing was good enough to be able to catch their conversation. When Frodo turned in response to a comment from Queen Arwen at his other side, Pip let out his carefully held breath and began to study the tablecloth intently.

Merry too, cast his glance downward, locking eyes with his dinner and hoping that the main course wouldn’t stare him down quite so accusingly.

 

OoOoo

 

Merry found Frodo seated on a rug beneath the wide canopy of an ancient chestnut tree. Knowing the hobbits’ liking for open greenery, Aragorn and Arwen had given them the run of the Palace gardens and they were often to be found there during the daylight hours . . . Sam and Frodo particularly so. There was precious little room for such luxuries as gardens in most Minas Tirith homes, pressed hard as they were against the mountainside. The house that the hobbits shared with Gandalf had only an internal courtyard and the wizard did not use it often enough to allow time to tend any plants. 

Merry stood, watching for a few minutes. Frodo was alone. When had Merry last seen him without Sam nearby? He glanced about and finally spied their friend leaving by the gate upon some errand.

Frodo balanced a large book, but Merry suspected that he was no longer reading it despite it lying open in his lap. It was not difficult to interpret the expression in Frodo’s features. Sadness. A deep and achingly hopeless sadness. And it was this that halted Merry in his tracks for several minutes. In fact, he would have turned away and left if Frodo hadn’t suddenly come to himself and quickly offered a smile of greeting.

“Hello, Merry. No Pip with you? Has he found a secret cache of food?” His voice was bright; his smile brittle . . . and there was no hint of sunlight in those sky blue eyes.

Merry decided to play along, laughing as he dropped down next to his cousin on the rug. “I left him heading towards the kitchens . . . following his nose, as Gandalf would put it. I’m sure that if Pip landed in the middle of a desert, he would find food.” He could have bitten off his tongue when he saw pain flicker across Frodo’s brow. Talk of deserts was too grim a reminder of the dry wastes of Mordor. Frodo quelled the expression; keeping his smile intact and his voice tightly controlled.

“He’ll probably meet Sam on the way, then. He went to find us some luncheon. You can stay and join us if you like. Sam always brings far too much.” Frodo patted his flat stomach. “He thinks I need fattening up.”

In his heart Merry could only concur. Noticing that his cousin’s right hand still lay beneath the open book, he leaned across, as though trying to read the tome. Before Frodo could protest, Merry lifted and closed it to look at the title. He glanced at it only briefly, however, noting instead that Frodo immediately slipped his right hand beneath his thigh effectively concealing it from sight. Merry gave no sign that he considered anything odd about the movement.

“A History of the House of Stewards.” Merry rolled his eyes. “Cousin . . . you are surrounded by beauty. You are alive and well. You have been responsible for saving the whole of Middle-earth from the reign of Sauron and aiding the rightful King of Gondor in claiming his throne. And you choose to bury yourself in a dry old history book.”

There was a flash of the old Frodo for a moment . . . his voice taking on the mild tone of censure so often remembered from Merry’s younger days. “There would have been no throne to claim if the Stewards had not done their duty. It is interesting to see how the stewardship passed from one generation to the next.” 

It had been Frodo who had introduced Merry to the convoluted joys of hobbit family trees, for all hobbits loved knowing exactly whom they were related to, to the nth degree. As the heir to the Master of Buckland, Merry had been set the task of memorising his family tree at a young age . . . an age when he would rather have been studying apple trees. By linking each name with the story of an event in their life, Frodo had brought those dry names to life and Merry had surprised his father by completing the task faultlessly.

Blinking his way out of memory, Merry found his cousin’s face . . . only to find Frodo’s eyes sliding away from his almost at once, as though afraid Merry would read something he would rather have hidden. Fine fingers stroked the leather binding of the book and Merry noticed for the first time that he could remember that there were no ink stains on them. Right handed or not, Frodo always managed to have ink stains on both hands. But not since he had been rescued from Mordor.

“You’re quite right, Cousin. I am suitably chastened.” Merry grinned before adding, “Perhaps you should copy out the line for us. I think that we Shirefolk should know who has helped keep us safe all these years.” Loving eyes noted Frodo’s sudden discomfort.

“Oh. I think the Shire would be best left in blissful ignorance of such weighty matters. And anyway, there would not be time to copy it before we leave for home.” Frodo lifted his right hand and laid it in his lap, covering and cradling it with his left as though it pained him.

Merry persisted. “But you were always a quick writer, Frodo. My father would often ask you to take down letters for him when you visited.” He knew Frodo well enough to be able to feel his cousin’s inner turmoil, although there was barely an outward sign. He was a little surprised, however, when Frodo snapped at him. 

“I have better things to do with my time.” Here was a side of Frodo that was rarely seen, and never before over such a small matter. The Ringbearer was now squeezing his right hand within his left as though he wished it was a lump of clay that he could reform, but when Merry laid his own atop his cousin’s, Frodo snatched his hands away.

“What’s wrong, Frodo?” asked Merry in alarm.

His cousin swallowed and for one moment Merry thought he would open to him. Then Frodo sprang up and away . . . his eyes hard as sapphires and his jaw clenched so tightly that the words were little more than a strangled whisper.

“I wish that people would stop asking me that. There is nothing wrong. The Ring is destroyed and the world is put back to rights. And I, as everyone keeps pointing out, am alive and well.”

Merry was so shocked that he could think of nothing to say or do as Frodo spun on his heel and left.


	2. Chapter 2

A firm knock at the door roused Frodo. He had been sitting amongst a heap of cushions on the windowsill of his room, watching the rain as it ran down the gutters and swilled the dusty cobbled streets of the stone citadel. The storm had arrived of a sudden, as summer storms are wont to do. The clap and rumble of the thunder was magnified by stone city walls until the houses themselves seemed to tremble and strain beneath the sound, and lightening forked wildly across a lowering sky.

The other hobbits had taken refuge on the ground floor of the house but Frodo chose to remain in the window of his upper bedroom, held half-unwilling captive by the raw power unleashed about him. Now the thunder had subsided but the heavy rain continued, lashing against the glass so fiercely that he could almost imagine it trying to beat its way through to sweep him away too.

The knock came again and Frodo curled tighter in the window nook. Perhaps whoever it was would think him resting and leave him alone with his thoughts and the pounding of the rain. 

The rain could not reach him, but the cool air brought with it was striking through the glass at his side, making his right hand ache. More precisely, it made one finger on his right hand ache. But Frodo had lived long enough with this ache to know better than to try and massage it away. He had tried before, only to have the fingers of his other hand encounter nothing . . . a total absence of flesh . . . a gap where his finger should be.

“Frodo. I know you are inside. Will you not bid me enter?” It was Aragorn’s voice, the King.

Jumping down from the sill and straightening his clothes, Frodo faced the door, blinking to accustom himself to the comparative gloom of his room. “Yes, of course.” His voice sounded falsely bright even to his own ears and he jammed his hand into his breeches pocket, trying to ignore the throbbing of what was not there . . . or perhaps it was the accusatory throbbing of what was there?

The door opened, sparing him any further thought on the matter as King Elessar entered. Frodo thought back to their first meeting . . . of the tall and raggedly dressed ranger. The person who strode into his room now was wearing the finest silks and velvets. His hair and beard were trimmed and combed, but the grey eyes that swept the room so keenly still belonged to Strider. The King waited and Frodo felt himself being assessed, just as deeply as Galadriel or Elrond had done. Frodo had to remind himself that it had been only months. It seemed an age ago. Perhaps it was.

When Frodo did not speak, Aragorn cast about for a chair and, bringing one with him, came to sit at the window, indicating that the Ringbearer should resume his own place. “I had expected to find you at tea with the others, downstairs.” 

Frodo dredged up his manners at last as he settled back against the window shutters, arranging cushions at his back . . . no mean feat with only one hand. “I was not particularly hungry and I wanted to watch the storm. It is so refreshing in the summer heat.” He managed a smile and a quirk of his dark head. “Did you come for a particular purpose, or are you just mingling with your subjects?” 

Diplomacy was something that the King had only recently learned to put into practice and it did not come easily. He still preferred the straightforward speech of the Dunedain and decided that it would be more appropriate for a hobbit anyway.

“I have been told that afternoon tea is not the only meal that you have missed . . . indeed that you rarely eat at all, except when alone in your room.”

Frodo blushed. “Who has told you this? They should not have troubled you.”

His protests were cut short. “Your friends worry about you, Frodo. They had every right to bring it to my attention for I consider myself your friend too, and I would wish to know if something troubles you.”

Sinking into his cushions, Frodo turned back to the window and the grey skies beyond. “I am sorry, Aragorn. It’s just that sometimes the pain is too much and I would rather withdraw than have my friends see me hurting. They have had their own dark journeys and deserve to be happy. They do not need reminding of those times.”

“Pain? I thought all your injuries were healed. My dear friend forgive me. What troubles you?” Aragorn leaned forward in his chair, his face filled with concern. Physical pain was an easy matter to deal with.

Frodo pulled his right hand out of his pocket and presented it for Aragorn’s inspection. The healer-king took it in his own hands, turning it about to check the flesh but finding nothing amiss with the stump . . . only a slight tightness in the palm that he proceeded to massage away. The longer he held it, however, the more tension he felt in his charge’s frame . . . as though even now Frodo wished to pull the hand away from him. He tried to calm the hobbit with simple talk.

“Considering the ragged nature of the injury, the finger has healed very well. There is some residual stiffness, but simple exercise will help with that. Did the healers not suggest some?” On a desk by the other window was a small leather ball, often prescribed for exercising injured hands, and a sheaf of pristine paper along with a patently new and unused quill.

“Yes. But they didn’t seem to be doing anything to improve it so I stopped.” Frodo’s reply came easily but his body was still wound tightly.

Aragorn continued to massage. “The improvement will be slow, but eventually you will be able to do all those things that you once did, with perfect dexterity.”

Frodo sighed. “I . . . it hurts so.”

“What is it that hurts? You have not yet explained,” asked the King, somewhat confused and not entirely sure that Frodo was describing a physical pain.

“It’s so silly. How can it hurt when it’s not there?” Frodo replied, finally meeting Aragorn’s gaze.

“You feel pain in your missing finger?”

The hobbit only nodded, studying Aragorn’s face for any sign that he considered that his friend was losing his mind. He was relieved to find only understanding.

“This is common amongst those who have lost limbs. I have encountered it often after battles. It usually fades in time, but it can be treated with medicines that block the sensation. I can arrange for some to be sent to you.”

His assurances were met with a soft release of breath. “I thought I was losing my mind. Thank you, Aragorn.”

Although there was a definite release of tension as Frodo withdrew his hand, Aragorn sensed there was more as yet unsaid. “Is there anything else that troubles you?”

Frodo’s assurance was too swift and he quickly lowered his eyes. “No. No. That is all. If I can get rid of the pain I can do the exercises.” He nodded towards the desk, as though trying to divert the line of enquiry. “I would dearly love to be able to write once more.”

Aragorn smiled, deciding to take one step at a time. “Or wield a knife at the dinner table?”

Frodo laughed. It was a little flat but it was a laugh. “I don’t seem to have been doing a very good job of hiding my problem. Does everyone in Minas Tirith know?”

“Anyone other than a friend would not have noticed, I think. But you have too many friends to get away with the deception for long. Come now . . . let’s go and have something to eat before Pippin clears the table.”

For a moment, Frodo hesitated, then preceded the King from the room. Aragorn watched the small straight back before him. There was something else. He was sure of it.

 

OoOoo

 

With an exasperated sigh, Frodo flung down his quill. A small heap of papers was stacked at his side on the desk and, had he not known what was supposed to be written therein, he would have been hard put to decipher them. He almost sighed again when Sam’s cheerful voice came over his shoulder.

“Finished already, Mr Frodo?”

Sam received the full brunt of his master’s disgruntled mood. “No, Sam. It’s not even begun. It looks like some crazed sparrow dipped its feet in the inkpot and tried to go for a walk. An orc would do better.”

Sam studiously ignored his tone and lifted the top sheet. His features drew into a frown for a moment before re-arranging themselves into a more encouraging expression. “Now then, Mr Frodo. You can’t go expecting to get it as neat as your old writing straight away.” He narrowed his eyes and squinted, angling the page to the light.

Never able to stay angry with Sam for too long, Frodo folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Alright. What does it say?” He suppressed a smile as Sam swallowed loudly and began prevaricating.

“You know I’m not as good at reading as you, Sir.” 

“You read and write very proficiently, Sam Gamgee. Although you may do better if you turned the page the right way up. You have it upside down. Not that I blame you for that mistake. If I hadn’t made a conscious effort to keep them one way up even I would be hard pressed to read some of them.” He pulled out one from the bottom of the heap, carefully inverting it before handing it over for scrutiny. “Try this for instance.”

Sam turned it this way and that in the light from the window, trying to buy time to formulate the correct comment. At least his master seemed to have mellowed a little. Perhaps he could continue the upward trend in Frodo’s mood. “Where, exactly, did you get these trained sparrows from? I’m sure Master Merry would make a killing down at the market reading fortunes with them. Look how this bit is written in a different style to the rest of the page? That sparrow seems to have brought a twin with him.”

Frodo was warming up. “My quill splayed and I couldn’t be bothered to trim it back in shape. I think I was pressing too hard.” His face dissolved into a grin at last. “Merry could make a tidy amount of drinking money with these pages. The notes could be introduced as the works of a philosopher from far away.” 

Frodo flexed his fingers, trying to work out some of the cramping pain, and the ever-vigilant Sam caught his movement at once.

“Let me help you with that, Mr Frodo. Strider . . . I mean, the King, has been showing me how. It’s just a matter of getting the muscles to work in a new way. They’re used to the old way and they’re angry about having to find a new one.” He reached for the maimed hand, pretending not to notice when Frodo flinched at his touch. Although Frodo no longer tried to hide his hand from Sam or Aragorn, those who watched him carefully (and Frodo had more friends than he knew who did so) noticed that he still kept it out of sight whenever possible.

 

OoOoo

 

Gandalf the White strode purposefully down the hallway to the garden entrance. For so many years he had planned and pushed, nudged and outright dragged events to bring about this resolution to Middle-earth’s problems. He had thought that he would be able to rest and enjoy the fruits of his labours for a little while but it seemed this was not to be. Apparently, a wizard’s work was never done.

Gandalf’s conversation with Aragorn this morning had finally brought to light a problem that the wizard had been unable to avoid in all his scheming, however. The healer-King had spoken of his worries about the Ringbearer. Frodo’s physical recovery was moving on well . . . or as well as could be expected. 

Frodo’s spirit, however, was still suffering in a way that needed tending now and could no longer wait, or it would poison the time he had left. Aragorn had told the wizard of Frodo’s reticence in accepting invitations to celebrations and his reluctance to speak with anyone of his experiences in Mordor. The healer-king believed that there was more to Frodo’s hiding of the maimed right hand than a worry about its looks or clumsiness in use. Despite one or two more attempts, the hobbit had not allowed him to probe more deeply . . . always managing to turn the conversation in another direction when he felt Aragorn pressing him too closely.

The King had called a council that morning, inviting Minas Tirith’s Master Healer, Elrond, Gandalf and Sam. Sam had been a little in awe in such learned company, but the knowledge that it would help his master had put him at ease enough to relate, in detail, the last hours of his master’s journey through Mordor. The bare facts had been gleaned earlier but there had been no real time to establish all the finer details. It was a testimony to Sam’s strength of will that he was able to tell them of the final events at the Cracks of Doom, even though he was openly weeping.

When he had finished and Gandalf had wrapped an arm about him in comfort, his audience guessed at Frodo’s problem. So overjoyed had they been at the outcome of the Ringbearer’s struggle that the moments before it had been overlooked.

Elrond broke the silence that had descended. “This pain cannot be allowed to continue.”

“I think we are all agreed upon that,” Gandalf replied, grief adding an unwanted sharpness to the comment. The elven lord only inclined his head in agreement, long used to the irascibility of wizards.

“And yet it will continue unless someone encourages him to speak of it. I have tried my best but he is stubborn.” Aragorn murmured.

His comment wrung a dry laugh from Gandalf. “That is a trait in him that I have always found endearing. I believe that without that stubborn streak he would not have completed his task.”

“So it would seem.” The Master Healer shifted in his chair, feeling a little overwhelmed in such lofty company himself. “The Ringbearer will need to speak with someone he knows and trusts. May I venture to suggest that perhaps what is needed here is someone older?”

All eyes swung to the ancient wizard. For his part, Gandalf returned Elrond’s gaze firmly, but the elf only quirked his lips in a brief smile. It was quite possible that in physical form Elrond was older than Gandalf, but those years were not written upon his smooth immortal brow.

“Indeed. Someone that he has known from childhood,” the elf added pointedly.

Gandalf sighed. He had known Frodo since the lad had started visiting his Uncle Bilbo before his adoption. The wizard tried to look put-upon but in his heart he wanted to help. It was not a sense of responsibility for placing the young hobbit in the way of danger but had more to do with his pain at seeing one whom he loved dearly, suffering. He looked down into Sam’s pleading face.

“Do you know where he is at the moment, Sam?”

A small, relieved smile touched Sam’s lips. “He’s in the palace gardens, Sir. I left him napping. I can take you there if you like?”

With a squeeze of Sam’s shoulder, the wizard rose. “No, Sam. I think I need to do this alone. I can find the way. You go home and wait for him. If all goes well we shall arrive together for luncheon.”


	3. Chapter 3

Frodo had opened his book after Sam left, intending to read at least one more chapter today. But the continuous patter of the fountain had lulled him to sleep before he had finished one paragraph. Sam always brought his master to this spot when he knew that he had not slept well the night before, knowing that the soft sound of the water reminded Frodo of comfortable rainy afternoons at Bag End. For some reason, he never seemed to have nightmares when he slept here, beneath the chestnut tree.

Frodo’s nightmares were becoming more frequent, rather than less so. During the daylight hours he seemed happy enough, although still a little subdued in his friend’s eyes, for someone who had long held the title of, “The Terror of Brandy Hall”.

Now Frodo had terrors of his own. They stalked him in the small hours of the morning, dark tattered robes coalescing from the shadowed corners of his room, pale swords crafted from cold shafts of moonlight. Woven through it all were the warm seductive murmurs of the Ring, that rose to a searing intensity until even his screams were drowned and only Sam’s touch could rescue him.

The soft whisper of the small fountain was the first thing that Frodo became aware of as he awakened. The cool silk of a down filled cushion cradled his cheek. When had he lain down? Yawning, he opened his eyes to search for his faithful Sam and sat up with a start when he found Gandalf instead.

“Gandalf . . . I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you arrive. Have you been here long? I hadn’t intended to sleep.”

The wizard studied his reactions closely, noting an instant of fear, followed by confusion, relief and then guardedness. The reactions were not those of the Frodo Baggins that had leapt into his arms in greeting at Bilbo’s party, but of one who had grown old before his years, one who had seen too many dreams burned away. One thing that Frodo had never been able to change, however, despite his fearful journey, was the way that his thoughts and emotions played out clearly upon his expressive face. And he had retained the hobbit skill for hiding, at least where his right hand was concerned for he had managed to slip it beneath his coattail even as he sat up.

“I have been watching you sleep for nearly an hour.” Pouring cider into a pair of cups, Gandalf handed one to his friend. “You looked so peaceful that I had not the heart to disturb you. One can always trust a hobbit to find a comfortable spot.” He smiled and took a sip of his drink, observing Frodo over the rim of his cup.

The small laugh that was Frodo’s answer was not the light-filled giggle Gandalf remembered. The forced show tugged mercilessly at Gandalf’s heart, for amusement did not sparkle in those blue eyes. As though sensing the wizard’s thoughts, Frodo looked away, his gaze falling anywhere but on that kindly face.

“You can thank Sam for this spot. He was the one who found it. I can’t imagine where he has got to. He usually stays with me or at least close by.” 

“I told him I would wait and then accompany you home for luncheon.” 

To his annoyance the wizard reached across and closed Frodo’s book, reading the title. (Why did everyone want to know what he was reading?) 

“Sam tells me you have started writing again. You should take some time to record your journey, Frodo. Others could learn from it.”

The edge of bitterness in Frodo’s voice came as a surprise to Gandalf. “And what would they learn?”

The wizard paused to consider his answer, taking care to keep his voice warm and open. “That peace is often hard won by sacrifice and should never be taken for granted. That not all stories end with, “And they all lived happily ever after”.”

“Yes. There were sacrifices.” Frodo looked away to the east. “But I’m not sure they’re the sort that would look very good on paper. I fear my actions would not make inspiring reading.”

Grey dust clouds still hung on the horizon over the remains of Mordor. Frodo’s imagination supplied the heat to go with those clouds and his right hand began to throb. For a moment he was leaning over a river of lava, his mind unable to separate the fire without from that which devoured his soul.

Gandalf took in the profile of that small figure. Hobbit features had not the fine lines of elven faces but Frodo had always been slender and more delicately built than most. Even now, after weeks of careful tending, he still held the gauntness of that pitiful creature that had been returned from Mount Doom by the eagles. Gandalf could see Frodo clench his jaw in an attempt to hold back . . . what? Pain? Memory? 

Shame?

“My dear hobbit. I cannot imagine you doing anything dishonourable. You have the purest soul I have ever met in all my years in Middle-earth.”

Setting down his cup, Frodo took a moment to place it . . . just so. When he glanced up, although his eyes were clear the finely angled jaw was quivering.

“Tell me of your sacrifices, Frodo.” An age lined hand reached down to cup the young hobbit’s smooth cheek. “Tell me why you believe your story is not worthy of the telling?”

Frodo swallowed hard before answering and drew out his right hand, placing it in his lap. “They all sing the lay of Frodo Of The Nine Fingers but they do not know . . . they cannot know . . . what really happened at the end.”

“Go on,” Gandalf murmured.

“I claimed It, Gandalf. At the end I failed. I could not destroy the Ring.” Frodo’s voice was barely audible above the soft fall of water from the fountain behind him. “It was wrapped about my soul and I knew it. I was afraid to let It go because . . .” 

Frodo paused, his lips clenched tight. There were no tears, indeed Gandalf began to wonder whether Frodo had any tears left.

“Because?” coaxed the gentle voice.

Taking a deep breath, his companion went on. “I was afraid to let it go . . . because . . . I was not sure that I could go on without it.” 

Gandalf waited for him to gather his strength and Frodo took another breath. “It seemed to me that I had three choices. I could let Sauron take the Ring, and watch the world fall under his dominion. I could throw It into the fire and destroy him. Or I could put It on . . . claim It. Perhaps then, I could use the Ring to put an end to Sauron and keep myself intact.” 

His maimed hand twitched . . . evidence of his final decision. “That seems so silly to me now, but it felt right at the time. I was so tired, Gandalf, so very tired of trying to shut It out.” That weariness was evident in his voice, even now. “There came a time when I could see nothing but the wheel of fire, hear only the clamour of its voice.” 

Gandalf could feel his own heart breaking. “You were beaten down and yet you held the Ring at bay for longer than anyone else would have been able to.”

The blue eyes sought his again. “I know now that the only sure way to rid us of Sauron was to destroy the Ring. But I was so afraid. I knew that it had woven Itself into my very soul.” Frodo’s voice rose. “I was not thinking of Middle-earth. I was afraid for . . . for me. I was afraid to die and I was afraid to live . . . and claiming the Ring was the only option I could see for my own survival. I am no hero. I deserve no songs.”

“Heroes are not born, Frodo. They are moulded by circumstance.”

“If I had any strength left, I would have tried to take the Ring back from Gollum . . . take It for myself.”

Gandalf considered the slight figure. Frodo’s face was hidden as he stared down at his hand, symbol to him of his failure. A large, warm palm gently covered and squeezed those small fingers. “We all knew that there was only a small hope of you succeeding. But that was our only hope and you took that burden. You took it and gave all that you had to see the task completed. It is not your fault, my dear friend, that your strength was not sufficient at the bitter end. You could not give what you did not have.”

Frodo was trembling now with the force of emotion so long locked away. “They think I am the one who saved Middle-earth. But it was pure accident that the quest succeeded. If anyone is our saviour . . . Smeagol is.”

Gandalf smiled softly, reaching down to stroke the trembling dark curls. “And who was it that found enough compassion in their souls to let Gollum live, so that he could take the Ring at the end? None other than Bilbo, Sam and Frodo. Without your love and pity there would have been no Gollum at the end,” he soothed.

But Frodo would have none of it. “I did what any other would do when faced with such a pitiful creature. And even in my actions to him there was an element of self-interest. In him I could see what I was destined to become. How could I hate him? I was but a few steps behind him on the same road.”

“But you did what he did not. You knew the danger and you struggled against it for as long as you could. Smeagol took the Ring in greed and malice, even murdered to get it, and then he embraced It. But you started your journey in love, and in that you were less vulnerable to the Ring’s wiles. You were very much more than just a few steps behind Gollum.”

Frodo’s words were hardly intelligible. “But at the end I failed. I gave in to my own selfish needs. I surrendered and embraced It too.”

“Yes, you did. And in doing so, did that make you any less than anyone else? Why do you think Elrond and Galadriel and even the great and wise Gandalf would not take the Ring? We knew that we would claim It. In that flaw you are no different to many whom you look upon as strong and wise.”

There was a moment of quiet as Frodo absorbed this idea.

“My dearest Frodo. Of all of us, yours was the purest heart. If the quest were to stand any chance of success, it would be with you as Ringbearer. But it was always the most slender of chances. We knew that you would be tempted but we hoped that your loving heart and honour would be strong enough to see the job done. It was never more than a hope, however . . . a hope that you loved your home enough to want to expend all in an attempt to save it.” Now it was the wizard’s turn to look uncomfortable.

Frodo’s dark brows drew together in confusion. “You did not expect me to return, did you? You thought I would die.”

Gandalf blinked misty eyes, surprised at the depth of feeling he held for this small hobbit. “Yes, Frodo. We hoped for some miracle but we knew that you had only the most slender of chances. You exceeded our expectations in reaching the Cracks of Doom. You did not fail us.” The large palm opened to expose a smaller, three-fingered hand cradled within. “This is not something to be hidden away in shame, but to be displayed with pride. You did all and more than anyone expected of you. You saved Middle earth.” The ancient wizard’s voice was husky with his own tears.

“Oh . . . Gandalf . . .” Suddenly, the wizard found his arms full of sobbing hobbit, Frodo’s damp face buried in his robes. He gathered the small figure into his lap, stroking heaving shoulders as Frodo’s tears flowed freely at last. 

Morning was fading to early afternoon before the sobs slowed. Frodo drew away, climbing to his feet, and Gandalf loosened his grip, handing over a handkerchief.

“Feeling better?”

Frodo blew his nose, took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Thank you, Gandalf.” He glanced up at the summer sky and its warm blue sparkled in his eyes as he let a relaxed smile flow across his face. “I think I am.”

Gandalf cleared his throat, reaching up quickly to brush away a few tears from his own lined cheeks. “Good. Then I suggest we go to luncheon before Sam comes looking for you. He is a hobbit that does not like to see good food go to waste."

Frodo threw his head back and laughed . . . his whole body shaking with the joy of it. Then he turned to Gandalf with a smile that would have put the silmarils to shame. “If there’s one thing I have learned on my journey, it’s that Sam Gamgee is not a hobbit to be crossed. We’d better hurry.”

 

THE END


End file.
